Food and Culture at Raven

Zen and the Art of Noodles

Jan Hodgman

It’s noodle night at Hosshinji and I’ve been recruited to serve. In my four months at this Zen monastery near the Japan Sea, I’ve sat countless hours of zazen, made brooms out of bamboo, cleaned a lot of toilets and washed mountains of pots and pans. Usually the kitchen crew serves the meals, but on noodle nights they can use an extra hand.

In many Buddhist monastic traditions, no food is eaten after the noon meal. The Japanese Zen version has blurred and softened many of the regulations, including the prohibiting of food after noon. As a nod to the stricter conventions, the evening meal here at the monastery is called yakuseki, medicine stone. This term comes from the time when monks tied warm stones next to their bellies to stave off hunger pangs. In keeping with the idea that the evening repast is a “non-meal”, we begin the serving with a single clap of the wooden clappers, instead of the elaborate chants that precede the morning and mid-day meals.

Our usual evening meal consists of ojiya, a stew of leftover rice and the noon miso soup, and yellow takuan pickles used to wash our bowls. Takuan, made from the two-foot long white daikon radishes we grow in the monastic garden, takes its name from the 17^{th century Zen monk Takuan Osho, a master of tea and the sword, who perfected the process of pickling vegetables in a mud of salted rice bran. Outside the monastery’s kitchen door, in the pickle shed, there are rows and rows of barrels and crocks full of fermenting daikon. They give off a tang of musty socks.}

Along with the stew and pickles, we usually have a vegetarian side dish. Sometimes this is boiled tofu, or stewed greens, or other seasonal vegetables from the garden. Depending on who’s in the kitchen for a particular training season, these side dishes can be very basic or highly elaborate. Also, because this monastery has about a dozen Westerners, the dishes can take on a German, Swiss or American flair.

Then about once a month there’s a break from the ordinary monastic supper and we have noodles as a treat. Noodles came to Japan from China somewhere in the eighth century, most probably brought by Buddhist priests. Historians generally agree that the first noodles in Japan were made in Buddhist temples. In a country where rice is indisputably the main staple, I suspect that the true heart of many a Japanese gourmand consists of a neatly coiled stack of noodles. Sometimes the noodles are skinny somen, sometimes the flat kishimen or brown buckwheat soba. Tonight we’re serving udon, fat white noodles made from wheat flour.

I can’t believe the noise coming from the dining tables as I crouch here ready to launch another bowl of fresh noodles. Thirty monks slurping with abandon creates an unearthly hullabaloo, a noise that could be used in the soundtrack of Twister. Many foreigners have their image of the Japanese people as among the most polite and refined shattered at their first visit to a noodle shop. I’ve heard that the younger set of Japanese are turning away from the time-honored custom of slurping noodles, but you’d never know it here at the monastery, where even the newest monks, some seventeen and eighteen years old, slurp and guzzle along with the best.

Off to the side of the dining hall, Dōiku, tonight’s cook, ladles drained noodles into gold metal bowls before setting them aswim in water—piping hot in the wintertime, and slightly warm for tonight’s spring serving. It seems to me a mix of a strong aesthetic sense and a compassionate concern that moves Dōiku to take the time to coil the noodles into personal-sized servings before adding the water. He then spread the noodles slightly with long cooking chopsticks to allow the hot water to surround them evenly. Even with a dish as plebian as a bowl of noodles, I’m reminded of the idea that the Japanese eat with their eyes. This is the country where a single perfect cantaloupe, tied with a ribbon and nested in its own wicker gift basket, can cost up to $250. The reverence and attention given to food throughout Japan reaches its height in a Zen monastery.

Thirteenth-century Zen master Dōgen, in his Instructions to the Cook, tells us not to be careless with poor ingredients or delighted with fancy ingredients. With a sincere, pure mind, the Zen cook can make even the crudest greens into a dish comparable to superb delicacies. I see Dōgen’s words come alive before me, observing Dōiku in the kitchen cooking noodles. He really does care for water and grain as though they are his own children.

Back at the dining tables, dining monks pass kettles of flavored broth down the long wooden tables, along with bowls of toasted sesame seed, finely chopped green onion, shichimi hot pepper and strips of nori seaweed. Other occasional additions are shreds of spicy green perilla, shiso, strips of fresh shiitake mushroom, stewed in a sweetened soy sauce broth, and scraps of fried tempura batter, donated by a local tempura shop. The monks fill their own black lacquered bowls with a small amount of broth, add the condiments, dip the noodles out of the central bowl into their own with their chopsticks, then slurp away. As someone dips up the last of the gold bowl’s noodles, one of the other monks signals to me to race in and replace the empty bowl with a new batch. It’s all I can do to keep the five sets of tables satisfied. Sometimes I see three sets of hands signal at once.

I come to recognize a rhythm to these nights. At the beginning, everyone’s bowls are full and I wait impatiently for the first signal to replace a bowl. The head table, comprised of the oldest hands, invariably races through their noodles faster than the rest, so I’m poised to dash in with their second serving. Two or three tables finish soon after, and I’m ready for them. Then there’s a lull as the more refined eaters, usually the laypeople at the end who haven’t gotten the knack of all-out gluttony, tidily fish out the remaining noodles before giving me a signal.

Then all hell breaks loose as three tables signal for more noodles simultaneously, followed closely by someone rattling their kettle to indicate a need for flavored broth. Another of the kitchen crew members rushes in to keep the supplies moving, and the two of us dash back and forth between the kitchen and the dining room with bowls and kettles. Sometimes we run out of cooked noodles before the appetites have been appeased, and there are scowls on the monks’ faces and censure awaiting the head cook for his miscalculation. But no words are exchanged. The meal is far from silent, but none of the noise comes from conversation.

Finally there is usually one last table at which one last monk continues to suck down noodles with abandon. Oblivious to everyone else’s hands folded in their laps, Dōrin blithely orders another bowl and everyone’s attention surreptitiously turns to him, to see if he can finish the bowl by himself. By now there is only the sound of one monk slurping, a desperate sound that reminds me of the “hungry ghosts” who receive our offerings at the noon meal, the dearly departed who are stuck in a limbo of greed with appetites that refuse to be filled.

When the final set of chopsticks are laid down, the signal is given to clean the bowls, and I scurry to gather up the empty condiment plates and kettles. By the time I return to the kitchen, Dōiku has already neatened up most of the sink area, stoked the fire, and started water boiling for the monks’ thermoses for an after-dinner cup of tea back in their rooms. After we finish doing the dishes, sweeping, and measuring out the rice for the next day’s porridge, I’ll enjoy a leisurely sucking of noodles with the rest of the kitchen crew.

Precooked udon noodles are available in many grocery stores, but freshly cooked noodles are superior. If you’re really adventurous, it’s possible to make the noodles from scratch. All Japanese noodles are cooked al dente--quite firm, but heated to the core.

Boil plenty of water in a large pot. Drop the dry noodles into boiling water and stir, keeping the noodles from sticking. Once the water is again at a rolling boil, add a cup of cold water to cool the outside of the noodles to the same temperature as the inside. Allow the water to return to a rolling boil and repeat this about three times. The noodles should cook about four to five minutes, though it can vary depending on the freshness of the noodles. Check to see that the noodles are firm, but tender. Drain.

Rinse the noodles under a running tap, or dump them into a sinkful of cool water. Rub the noodles to get rid of excess starch, then strain. Just before serving, put the noodles in a strainer and immerse in hot water, or scoop them into a bowl of hot water to serve heated at the table.

Although bottled broth is now available for Japanese noodles, here are the monastic and non-vegetarian versions. Konbu stock clouds if left for more than twenty-four hours, so make the broth fresh with the serving of noodles.

Several hours before serving, wipe a four to six-inch piece of konbu with a damp paper towel to remove grit. Place in a pot with eight cups of water. At cooking time, heat the konbu and water at medium heat. Boiled konbu broth becomes a bit slimy and murky, but some people prefer this stronger flavor. The standard method at our monastery was to heat the stock until the konbu rises to the surface, then remove the kelp. Turn the heat up and, for the non-vegetarian version, just before the stock comes to a boil, add1 ½ to 2 ounces of bonito flakes and turn off the heat. When the flakes begin to sink to the bottom, strain through a colander lined with cheesecloth.

To the stock, add one cup of sake and a couple of tablespoons of sugar (to taste—broth for soba noodles is usually made sweeter). Gently boil away the alcohol with the lid off. Then add one and a half cups soy sauce and bring to a gentle boil. Simmer for five to ten minutes (longer if you prefer a stronger stock). Taste and correct seasonings. The flavor should be a little salty if drunk straight, while for udon there should just be a hint of sweetness.

Green onion, or the authentic Japanese version, negi, sliced very finely

(if using green onions, some prefer to rinse them in cold water after cutting, then squeeze and drain)

Green perilla (shiso), sliced into thin one-inch threads

Shichimi pepper (literally “seven flavors”, this is a blend of hot red peppers, dried mandarin peel, poppy seed and other ingredients—sold in Asian food stores)

Pass the condiments and have the diners put a spoonful of each into their ceramic or lacquer soup bowl. Then pass a kettle of the warmed broth, and have each person pour about one-half cup on top of the condiments. Place the noodles in their bowl of hot water in the center of the table and everyone can dip out noodles with chopsticks into their own bowls. Replenish condiments, broth and noodles as needed. If you’re concerned about germs, have separate wooden chopsticks available on the central noodle bowl for communal dipping. Remember to slurp the noodles with gusto!